Michael Logan

Novelist, Journalist and other things ending in -ist

Lazy writer

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After a massive spurt (Carry On fans, feel free to titter), I have not written a single word on the book for the last week. This is partly because we were down at Steve and Sue’s villa on the Indian Ocean, oh posh us, and I went on a reading frenzy while lying on the terrace listening to the waves slapping against the coral cliffs below us.

On the way down we had a tyre blow out at 100kph, which probably should have been more terrifying than it was. The car did not flip over and roll, or skid into the path of an oncoming truck. It just wobbled a bit, like my bowels, and was harder to control as I braked to a halt.

Anyhoo, tonight I am going to get back onto the horse and continue with the 2nd draft. I hope to have a decent version finished by mid-December, so if anybody wants to volunteer as a reader (other than those who have already been nominated/nominated themselves), please let me know.

Be warned, however: just because I have a big baldy forehead this does not mean the book is highbrow. It isn’t, as the title – Apocalypse Cow – will probably hint at. Normally I attempt to write serious, thoughtful stories, but this piece of nonsense is just splurging out of me and needs dealt with before I can move on to ghost-writing the biography of my good friends and ethical folk-pop-rockers Quentin and Crisp, a project I am very excited about.

I am looking for people who are happy to give an honest opinion that is more in-depth than: it’s shit/I fell asleep after three pages/I guess it’s alright if you like that sort of thing. I am likely to be sick of the sight of the thing by then, so will need fresh eyes to point out the huge plot holes an overweight hippo could meander through without touching the sides.

If Monty Python had known any aid workers…

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Four recently retired aid workers sitting together in Gypsy bar in Nairobi. “Do me” by P-Square being played in the background while they drink Tusker beer.

MSF worker (Francoise): Ahh. Very passable, this, very passable.

UNHCR worker (Lesley): Nothing like a good glass of Tusker, eh Jeff?

Oxfam worker (Jeff): You’re right there, Lesley.

WFP worker (Maria): Who’d of thought we’d one day all be sitting here drinking Tusker?

Francoise: Yeah. Back in Somalia, we were grateful just to have a cup of water.

Lesley: A cup of dirty water.

Maria: Scooped out of a toilet.

Francoise: In a filthy, cracked cup.

Jeff: Full of cholera.

Maria: We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of old socks.

Francoise: The best WE could manage was to jam a straw made out of goat bones into a camel’s hump and suck really hard.

Jeff: But you know, we were happy, even though life was so hard.

Francoise: Aye. Because we were saving lives. My old Dad used to say to me: “Saving lives is more important than having a sit-down toilet.”

Maria: He’s right. I was happier in Darfur even though we used to live in tiny little concrete house with holes in the roof.

Lesley: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! In Goma, we used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!

Jeff: You were lucky to have a ROOM! In Liberia, we used to have to live in a corridor!

Francoise: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of living in a corridor! It would’ve been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank in Mogadishu. We got woken up every morning by having goat innards thrown over us! House!? Hmph.

Maria: Well, when I say “house” it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpaulin, but it was a house to US.

Lesley: The rebels evicted us from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in Lake Kivu!

Jeff: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road.

Francoise: Cardboard box?

Jeff: Yes

Francoise: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o’clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat some stale rice, go work in the hospital saving lives for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, al-Shabaab would give us forty lashes and makes us say thank you!

Lesley: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o’clock in the morning, eat a handful of cold beans, go to work at the refugee camp every day for only 5,000 euros a month tax free, come home, and the CNDP would beat us around the head and neck with broken bottles and then rape us.

Jeff: Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o’clock at night, and LICK the wounded clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of uncooked maize, worked twenty-four hours a day at the food distribution point for only 4,000 euros a month tax free. When we got home, the rebels would kidnap us, tie us blindfolded to radiators then cut our hands off.

Maria: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o’clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold sand soaked in camel piss, work twenty-nine hours a day in the camp, and when we got home, the Janjaweed would kill us and dance about on our graves singing. And we only got paid 3,000 euros a month tax free.

Francoise: Only 3,000 euros a month? Now that is hardship.

ALL: Yup, yup

Shamelessly stolen from Monty Python and then monkeyed with. Click here for the original sketch

If Monty Python had known any aid workers…

by

Four recently retired aid workers sitting together in Gypsy bar in Nairobi. “Do me” by P-Square being played in the background while they drink Tusker beer.

MSF worker (Francoise): Ahh. Very passable, this, very passable.

UNHCR worker (Lesley): Nothing like a good glass of Tusker, eh Jeff?

Oxfam worker (Jeff): You’re right there, Lesley.

WFP worker (Maria): Who’d of thought we’d one day all be sitting here drinking Tusker?

Francoise: Yeah. Back in Somalia, we were grateful just to have a cup of water.

Lesley: A cup of dirty water.

Maria: Scooped out of a toilet.

Francoise: In a filthy, cracked cup.

Jeff: Full of cholera.

Maria: We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of old socks.

Francoise: The best WE could manage was to jam a straw made out of goat bones into a camel’s hump and suck really hard.

Jeff: But you know, we were happy, even though life was so hard.

Francoise: Aye. Because we were saving lives. My old Dad used to say to me: “Saving lives is more important than having a sit-down toilet.”

Maria: He’s right. I was happier in Darfur even though we used to live in tiny little concrete house with holes in the roof.

Lesley: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! In Goma, we used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!

Jeff: You were lucky to have a ROOM! In Liberia, we used to have to live in a corridor!

Francoise: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of living in a corridor! It would’ve been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank in Mogadishu. We got woken up every morning by having goat innards thrown over us! House!? Hmph.

Maria: Well, when I say “house” it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpaulin, but it was a house to US.

Lesley: The rebels evicted us from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in Lake Kivu!

Jeff: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road.

Francoise: Cardboard box?

Jeff: Yes

Francoise: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o’clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat some stale rice, go work in the hospital saving lives for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, al-Shabaab would give us forty lashes and makes us say thank you!

Lesley: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o’clock in the morning, eat a handful of cold beans, go to work at the refugee camp every day for only 5,000 euros a month tax free, come home, and the CNDP would beat us around the head and neck with broken bottles and then rape us.

Jeff: Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o’clock at night, and LICK the wounded clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of uncooked maize, worked twenty-four hours a day at the food distribution point for only 4,000 euros a month tax free. When we got home, the rebels would kidnap us, tie us blindfolded to radiators then cut our hands off.

Maria: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o’clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold sand soaked in camel piss, work twenty-nine hours a day in the camp, and when we got home, the Janjaweed would kill us and dance about on our graves singing. And we only got paid 3,000 euros a month tax free.

Francoise: Only 3,000 euros a month? Now that is hardship.

ALL: Yup, yup

Shamelessly stolen from Monty Python and then monkeyed with. Click here for the original sketch

Kenyans and the art of rubbernecking

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If rubbernecking were an Olympic sport, a Kenyan would be a shoo-in for the gold every time.

I was on the bus heading into town the other day, and as usual I had my head down reading my book. Suddenly there was a big commotion. Everybody on my side of the bus pressed their faces to the window. Everybody on the other side stood up and tried to cram into the aisle to see what the others were looking at. Excited voices buzzed back and forth: “What’s happening?” “Can you see it?”

They were looking at a huge circle of people gathered around something unseen on the ground – possibly someone who had died of a heart attack or been hit by a car. The rubberneckers on the bus were rubbernecking at another group of rubberneckers. The funny thing was that the bus – which if you have ever ridden public transport in Nairobi you will know was not very stable to begin with – tilted crazily to the side. Had it fallen over the rubberneckers would have become the rubberneckees (I know that’s not a real word, but I like it).

This incident encapsulated the culture of rubbernecking in Kenya. I find the sheer exuberance and lack of embarrassment with which Kenyans go about rubbernecking very endearing, although I’m sure if I were lying in a pool of my own blood I would not be so keen on it.

If you open the Daily Nation on any given day, you are sure to find a few photographs showing Wananchi (citizens) rubbernecking. The picture may show a truck overturned in a shallow river watched by a line of people gathered on the hill above, curious onlookers peeking through the curtains of a home where a rape and murder victim has been found or hundreds of people watching the clean-up of a supermarket gutted by fire in the hope of seeing some bodies being brought out (all real examples).

The phenomenon cuts across all strata of society: you are just as likely to see a businessman in a pin-striped suit jostling for a good view as you are a security guard or gardener.

So why do I like it? Well, because it is an honest expression of human nature that is considered unacceptable in my own country. As much as we don’t like to admit it, humans have a fascination with death, preferably other people’s. I remember as a boy of about 12 coming across the body of a man who had dropped dead of a heart attack near my school in Glasgow. My friend and I stopped to gawk as all the adults walked past. You could tell they wanted gather round, but in our culture it wasn’t appropriate. All they could do was slow down and look out of the corner of their eyes for as long as possible. As an adult, I am now bound by my culture, so when I pass an accident or dead body now, I do little more than steal a furtive glance, even though I want to see more.

There is nothing inherently bad about wanting to look at car wrecks. Death is coming to us all, yet it is a huge mystery. We only get to experience it once barring medical intervention and we so rarely get to observe it close up. Why would we not want to look it in the eyes and try to understand it, glean some hints as to its nature, at every opportunity?

Of course, this is just my opinion on why the wananchi gather. It is possible some people just find intestines pretty. Maybe one day I will join the crowd of onlookers to ask them why they are there. I am not sure they will have an answer for me, as I do believe the urge to watch is instinctive. But at least it will give me an excuse to get close to the body and have a right good stare.

Kenyans and the art of rubbernecking

by

If rubbernecking were an Olympic sport, a Kenyan would be a shoo-in for the gold every time.

I was on the bus heading into town the other day, and as usual I had my head down reading my book. Suddenly there was a big commotion. Everybody on my side of the bus pressed their faces to the window. Everybody on the other side stood up and tried to cram into the aisle to see what the others were looking at. Excited voices buzzed back and forth: “What’s happening?” “Can you see it?”

They were looking at a huge circle of people gathered around something unseen on the ground – possibly someone who had died of a heart attack or been hit by a car. The rubberneckers on the bus were rubbernecking at another group of rubberneckers. The funny thing was that the bus – which if you have ever ridden public transport in Nairobi you will know was not very stable to begin with – tilted crazily to the side. Had it fallen over the rubberneckers would have become the rubberneckees (I know that’s not a real word, but I like it).

This incident encapsulated the culture of rubbernecking in Kenya. I find the sheer exuberance and lack of embarrassment with which Kenyans go about rubbernecking very endearing, although I’m sure if I were lying in a pool of my own blood I would not be so keen on it.

If you open the Daily Nation on any given day, you are sure to find a few photographs showing Wananchi (citizens) rubbernecking. The picture may show a truck overturned in a shallow river watched by a line of people gathered on the hill above, curious onlookers peeking through the curtains of a home where a rape and murder victim has been found or hundreds of people watching the clean-up of a supermarket gutted by fire in the hope of seeing some bodies being brought out (all real examples).

The phenomenon cuts across all strata of society: you are just as likely to see a businessman in a pin-striped suit jostling for a good view as you are a security guard or gardener.

So why do I like it? Well, because it is an honest expression of human nature that is considered unacceptable in my own country. As much as we don’t like to admit it, humans have a fascination with death, preferably other people’s. I remember as a boy of about 12 coming across the body of a man who had dropped dead of a heart attack near my school in Glasgow. My friend and I stopped to gawk as all the adults walked past. You could tell they wanted gather round, but in our culture it wasn’t appropriate. All they could do was slow down and look out of the corner of their eyes for as long as possible. As an adult, I am now bound by my culture, so when I pass an accident or dead body now, I do little more than steal a furtive glance, even though I want to see more.

There is nothing inherently bad about wanting to look at car wrecks. Death is coming to us all, yet it is a huge mystery. We only get to experience it once barring medical intervention and we so rarely get to observe it close up. Why would we not want to look it in the eyes and try to understand it, glean some hints as to its nature, at every opportunity?

Of course, this is just my opinion on why the wananchi gather. It is possible some people just find intestines pretty. Maybe one day I will join the crowd of onlookers to ask them why they are there. I am not sure they will have an answer for me, as I do believe the urge to watch is instinctive. But at least it will give me an excuse to get close to the body and have a right good stare.

Van Morrison changed my life

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Nats was telling me last night how lucky she was to have met me and have her life transformed from a dull grind full of greyness and gloom into a Technicolor cartoon full of shiny happy bunnies dancing the fandango with cute little monkeys in waistcoasts while petals rain down from the sky. Hurray!

Actually, what she really said that she was glad she started fencing and met me because I had helped in the creation of Charlotte. I guess it is just common courtesy to thank the sperm donor, but I’ll take any kind of compliment I can get.

Anyway, this led to a discussion of life-changing moments. All our lives are full of little crossroads that would send us down different paths: John eats a bad curry and gets a dodgy stomach, so doesn’t go out to the concert were he would have met his perfect woman/man/hermaphrodite; Cindy’s alarm clock fails to go off and she misses the job interview that would have seen her become the most powerful woman in Auchtermuchty, holding dominion over 2,000 souls and the wee shop that sells tartan tea towels; Alfie sees a swallow, decides it is spring, takes a more scenic route to work and is promptly squashed by a number 54 bus, which at least has the benefit of providing a talking point for the bored commuters being ferried to their dull office jobs.

Most of the time we don’t notice these moments as they slip by or we don’t appreciate quite how much they would change or lives – well, except for Alfie, assuming he had enough time to think more than “Shiiiiiitttttteeeeeeee!!!!” before the driver was trying to clean his brains off the windscreen with the window wipers. I actually do have a moment from which I can clearly trace a path to where I am now.

It is 1992. I am 21 and sitting upstairs in the Horseshoe bar in Glasgow with my relatively new work colleagues from Linn Products – the high end music system company. I have taken a job stuffing components into circuit boards after dropping out of university due to a combination of factors, including laziness, poverty and a lack of self-esteem. The job is boring, but the people are great and my immediate boss is the exact double of Zelda from the Terrahawks, which somehow makes it more bearable. I have no clear idea of what I am going to do next. I am just content to be making some money to spend on records, booze and chemicals.

I am a terrible singer, but have glugged down just the right number of beers to be cajoled into singing on the Karaoke machine. I elect to sing ‘Gloria’ by Van Morrison, partly because I love Van the Man, but also because it is a shouty song and therefore suits my singing voice. My performance is what you would expect. Even above my amplified screams I can hear giggles and abuse. I content myself by spraying the ungrateful buggers with spittle every time I shout ‘G-L-O-R-I-A’.

Finally it is over, and I return to the table. Callum, who runs the test department – which comprises three or four guys whose diplomas from Cardonald College give them a faint air of superiority over the plebs – comes over and demands to buy me a drink. He is a huge Van Morrison fan, and wants to congratulate me on my performance (he is very, very drunk). We get even more drunk and talk about Van Morrison for an hour, then move onto other things, such as the fact I had finished 2.5 years of Physics at Strathclyde University. Callum and I become work buddies, and within three weeks he asks if I would want to go back to university to study electronics, with the fees paid by Linn (I had lost my right to fee payment in 2nd and 3rd year by dropping out). Of course I say yes. I go to Glasgow University, get my degree and promptly show my gratitude to Linn and Callum by going off to work for OKI in Cumbernauld.

So, here’s the chain of events leading to now:

I sing a Van Morrison song in a bar, and as a result get friendly with Callum. Consequently, I go back to University and get a degree. My degree gets me a job at OKI, where I meet Andy McVeigh. I rent a room in his flat. In a casual discussion one day, I tell Andy I used to fence. He gets all keen and says he wants to start it (Andy is a major womaniser, despite being bald since 19 and looking kind of like a turtle, and is sure he can get some action at fencing). I am not so keen, remembering how angry/upset I used to get when I lost at competitions, but he persuades me to come along with him. We join Glasgow West End Fencing Club, where I drink a lot, make some great friends and kind of fence. This goes on for six years, until I am just about to quit fencing because it has lost its appeal. Then Nats joins Glasgow West. After some ups and downs, we get together. She is going to Bosnia for a year, and after a few months decide we are in love, are going to get married and that I am coming to Banja Luka, the capital of Bosnia’s Serb Republic. I sell my house and car and go to Bosnia, where I trade in my soldering iron for a notebook and pen. We move to Hungary after a year, and I start to work for the German Press Agency. Four years later, I apply to get transferred to Nairobi, and we move. Nats gets pregnant, and along comes Charlotte.

So, there you go. If it weren’t for a drunken decision to sing a certain song in a certain bar, I would not have gone back to fencing and met the only perfect match for me out there, I would not have the gorgeous little Charlotte, I would not be a journalist, and would not be living in Kenya. All pretty big consequences for one little song, which I am now very glad I sang.

I would love to know if anybody else has a moment like that they can pin down. If so, leave a comment or send me a private message with your story.

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